


Then

by velvetgunfire



Series: AU Merry Christmas (present-fics) [3]
Category: w-inds. (Band)
Genre: AU, M/M, it's a bit like (but different from) the poem in the beginning note, more descriptive of past AU events than the previous two in the series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-31
Updated: 2006-12-31
Packaged: 2019-04-28 02:31:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14439570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetgunfire/pseuds/velvetgunfire
Summary: After the first week -- of waiting, what on earth could he be waiting on -- he calls Ryuichi's cell, on a masochistic impulse.





	Then

**Author's Note:**

> _When I am dead, even then,_  
>  I will still love you, I will wait in these poems.  
> When I am dead, even then  
> I am still listening to you.  
> I will still be making poems for you  
> Out of silence;  
> Silence will be falling into that silence,  
> it is building music.
> 
>  
> 
> \--Muriel Rukeyser

It's late, and below his balcony the night breeze blows through avenues of man-made stars. His keitai trills a soft ring, and he flips it open, pressing it to his ear.   
  
"Hello?"   
  
A long breath-filled silence, then --  _don't cry so much, Keita,_  a voice whispers. He doesn't know if he should be afraid, or not, because it sounds so much like Ryuichi -- Ryuichi when he's tired out after a long day of dancing and he's sprawled out on the dance studio's floor and Keita and Ryohei have to drag him into their manager's car or he'd nap right there.  
  
But Ryuichi's dead.   
  
Absently, he touches his fingertips to his cheek and they come away wet.   
  
Oh.   
  
* * *   
  
After the first week -- of waiting, what on earth could he be waiting on -- he calls Ryuichi's cell, on a masochistic impulse.  _Hi, I'm not available at the moment, please leave a voicemail at the beep and I'll call you right back --_    
  
Listening to that on the phone is different from re-watching old videos; listening to Ryuichi's voice over the phoneline lets him shut his eyes and pretend for a moment, just a moment, that he's going to say, Ryuichi, call me back, and suddenly the message'll cut off and Ryuichi will be there, breathless and laughing and telling him  _I'm sorry just y'know avoiding that crazy girl stalker you know the one that chased me outside 109 on Sunday?_  
  
It's strange how someone can no longer be there, but their voice still comes so clearly through the receiver; and it takes him another week to wrap his mind around the fact that this is a digital encoding, an electronic conversion, bytes of data replicating a moment that no longer exists, not Ryu -- someone -- on the other end   
  
and his lips shaping the emotion fresh in his voice.  
  
Well  
  
there isn't.   
  
Ryuichi on the phone sounds so warm and lively, it's hard to believe he isn't there. That his flesh is cold on metal and -- Keita really wants to throw up.  _A touch of cold fingers on the back of his neck._  
  
He imagines cold, cold lips on his mouth, caressing him, and then he's bent double with nausea and guilt. It's so dark out on the balcony and the dead lie waiting in the shadows, waiting for him to love them. But they're dead, and he doesn't know if he can, his mouth is dry and his skin is clammy with cold sweat and he wants to scream and run but he's rooted to the spot --   
  
He calls every night till the line gets cut. No longer in use.   
  
The feeling that insinuates itself into his numbness is the cool little clinch of fear in your gut the moment you know you're falling and going to hit the ground real soon.   
  
Sleepwalking, Ryohei says when they find him out in the cold, incoherent, with no sense of where he is. It's eight in the morning and everyone's frantic.  
  
Wakes up and finds himself.  
  
In the parking lot. There's grit under his heels and he stands up, averting his eyes from the panic on Ryohei's face.   
  
* * *   
  
His eyes snap open.   
  
Ryuichi's by his side, warm and his cheeks flush with blood, mumbling something in his sleep. If this is a dream then he never wants to wake up.   
  
The light from the adjoining bathroom is softly filtering into their bedroom, and Keita wraps an arm around the blanket-covered bundle of Ryuichi, tucks Ryuichi's head under his chin. Ryuichi stirs a little, nuzzles at him, then falls back to sleep. His breaths are warm against Keita's chest, through the thin barrier of his shirt.   
  
Ryuichi's face is peaceful, so is the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Relief washes over Keita so strongly it's almost like pain.   
  
* * *  
  
"What's it like to be Oshiro Ryuichi and -- Ryuichi -- at the same time?"  
  
Ryuichi shrugs fluidly, cracking an egg into the pan. It sizzles, and he turns it out evenly with a deft hand.   
  
"I guess there was a time when I was only Oshiro Ryuichi," he says. Keita watches his eyes shadow in considered thought. He's picking his words carefully. "But he's still me. What's so weird about it, Keita? You've lived thirty-six years, too."   
  
He grins sunnily at Keita, skillet poised in hand, and the tension dissipates into nothing.   
  
Keita's cooking has improved lately, but Ryuichi's is still better. He totes the plates up to the table and they tuck in to breakfast.   
  
Later, when Ryuichi's getting ready to go to work, he slips his shoes on, standing in the genkan, and pauses. Keita, hand to the doorframe, is seeing him off. Ryuichi reaches up for him and they share a quick kiss.  
  
"The first time you touched me -- I begun to remember," Ryuichi smiles at him, "it made me whole."   
  
* * *  
  
Ryuichi is curled up next to him, head couched against his bicep, flipping though a random magazine while he goes through a score that's due in tomorrow. Ryuichi's feet are braced against the side of the couch, and his toes curl and uncurl as he pushes at the armrest with his feet, stretches and yawns.   
  
Keita allows himself the pleasant distraction of combing his fingers through Ryuichi's hair, which turns into a fingertip-trip down the captivating lines of his neck and the sensitive hollow between his collarbones, and pretty soon the score and the magazine are forfeit on the floor.   
  
Keita kisses him hungrily, he can never get enough of him, but Ryuichi gentles it, turns the kiss tender but still demanding. Keita's heart is pounding in his ears and exhaustion and desire run twin through his veins. They draw ever closer. "Don't be afraid, Keita," Ryuichi says patiently, loosening Keita's grip from his shirt and spreading it firmly against his hip, "we'll always find each other. Promise."   
  
* * *


End file.
